


The Christmas Genie

by Soobiebear



Category: Metallica
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soobiebear/pseuds/Soobiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a gift for Cosmic Gerbil in 2014.  The prompt was 'James Hetfield,Cliff Burton (Metallica): In '86, Cliff's ghost visits James. Please something cute, comforting, funny and nice :).'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Genie

Waking from his slumber, James blinked his eyes squinting against the bright afternoon sun. he didn't really remember what happened last night. There had been another party in the crazy week between Christmas and New Years, and lots of booze and pretty girls and then... something happened. He was in his own bed, so it couldn't have been too bad. He ran a quick check, both feet and legs, arms, no obvious injuries. His head hurt like a mother fucker, but that would pass, as it did everyday.

James sat up slowly, cradling his aching skull. His mouth was dry and he hacked up a lung, the stale air in his room not helping clear last nights smoke imbued mucus. Long legs went over the edge of the bed, toes curling into the old shag carpeting. The small string of blue Christmas lights lit the single window in the room.

Something moved in the corner of the room and James flinched, headache flaring to the point of death behind his forehead.

“Dude, chill.” With his hangover it looked like Cliff was standing over by the small closet. Certainly sounded like Cliff.

James closed his eyes, waiting for the hallucination to go away. He hadn't drank that much.

“James, man, 'ain't got much time.”

James cracked an eye and looked at Cliff. There he was, just as he looked a few months ago; long hair and bellbottoms, stubble and sunglasses indoors.

“Yeah,” James talked to his hallucination, deciding he was dreaming and that it was ok to roll with it. “What's up man?”

“I'm like, the ghost of Christmas Past, man.” James raised his eyebrows at the corny line. “Well, not quite, but I got some shit for you.”

“Oh yeah?” James rubbed at his eyes, surprised when Cliff didn't disappear.

“Look man, up there,” Cliff pointed his fingers toward the ceiling, “they think I'm a genie. Can't imagine why.” He wheezed out a chuckle, pulling a joint out of his pocket and sticking the end into his mouth. His large hands patted at his jacket, then at his jeans. “Shit, you got a lighter man? Some things in heaven as they are on Earth.”

James stretched, reaching out to his nightstand and fishing out a lighter from under the empty cans and fast food wrappers. He held it out to Cliff, who walked over and took it from his hands, flicking it and lighting the other end of his joint. “Aaah, man, St. Benedict has the best dope man.” He sucked in a breath and held it, letting it go with a snort that was pure Cliff. He passed it over to James, who cautiously took a hit. His hangover eased as it entered his blood, blotting out the edge of panic at his dead friend standing in his bedroom.

“What you got Cliff? I thought you were dead?” He handed the joint back, the ashes falling off and disappearing before they hit the flammable carpeting.

“Oh yeah, man, this shit is awesome.” Cliff tucked his hair behind his ears. “So, like, they think I'm a genie and all, and I didn't tell 'em no.” He licked his fingers and pinched the head of the joint out, sticking it back in his shirt pocket. “So, you know, like, you get three wishes, 'cos I'm a genie.”

James scrunched up his face, still thinking he was trapped in some strange dream. “Well, I could use a room full of beer. Just like, the practice room or something, beer all the way to the ceiling.” A shitty drum kit, a few amps, and some guitars appeared in James' small bedroom.

“Done, man. Next?” Cliff folded his arms over his chest. The cymbals spilled over James' bed, too much gear crammed into the little available floor space.

“No way.” James noticed his amp and guitar in the piles. “No fucking way.”

“Dude! Way!” Cliff motioned down the hall to the practice room. “Go check for yourself.”

James pulled back his sheet and finally stood on his feet, carefully walking past Cliff and out the door, down the short hallway to the extra bedroom that had previously been the band room. James opened the door and was met by a wall of cardboard boxes. Red for Budweiser, gold for Coors, the headache inducing Blue and White of Busch. It covered the door, and somehow James knew it stretched the entire length and width of the room.

“No fucking way.” James just stared.

“Man, time...” Cliff was behind him, leaning against the wall and pretending to look at a watch. “Make a second wish.”

James pushed on the beer cases, feeling the glass bottles within. His second choice would have to be a good one, no more rooms full of beer. “I want the band to succeed.” It was a good choice in his mind. It would be their careers, giving them the space to do as they wanted, and not have to punch a time clock as the rest of the world did. Plus, he could take care of Lars and Kirk who were, in the wake of Cliff's death, still struggling to get through each day.

“Oh man, that's a sucky wish.” James frowned. He thought it had been a good one. “You guys were gonna be successful anyway.” Cliff did something and the air around him changed. “Ok James, one wish left. Better make it a good one.”

James was out of ideas. “What should I pick?”

Cliff held up his hands. “Dude, I can't tell you that! It's against the genie code of ethics or some shit.” He chuckled again. “Got any bunuelos? I miss the bunuelos from that guy on Market Street.”

“Can I wish to have you back?”

“Nah, man it doesn't work like that.” Cliff must have forgotten about the sweets already.

James thought as hard as the good pot and lingering hangover would let him. With his future secure, and his immediate future as a beer distributor lined up, he thought about his past and the things he'd always wanted. Skateboards and cars and clear skin - money could buy all that and Cliff just told him the money would come later. What couldn't one buy?”

“How about love? I want to be loved and happy, just for myself, the kind I never had.” James cleared his throat. “Can I wish for that?”

Cliff slid his sunglasses from his nose, holding them in his hand. “Sure, you can wish for that, but is it what you really want?” He leaned forward slightly, spacing out each word just so.

James didn't get what he was insinuating. “Yeah, who wouldn't want to have a love of their life?”

“Aight man, just remember you asked for it.” The air changed again as Cliff did something. “Been a trip man, but I gotta hit it. Lots of stuff to do up there, you know?”

Cliff was becoming more transparent already, fading back to the air. "Dude, wait! Are you coming back?"

"Never know man," Cliff's voice sounded from nowhere. "Big man's got some plans for me. Keg party next weekend, I'd better not see you there!"

James watched where Cliff had been standing, waiting for any sign of his return. After a few minutes of staring at the ratty wallpaper, he gave up and started looking at his beer. It was still there, all neatly stacked in cases. He tried to figure out how to take the first one out without ending up covered in beer and broken glass. Leave it to Cliff to give him a puzzle.

"How did that get in there?" Lars walked up behind James, curiously staring at the massive stack of beer. "When did you get this?"

James looked over at Lars, with his long feathered hair and big doe eyes. Something in his chest hitched discordantly. "Cliff just made it happen." 

Lars curled his lip. "That's a pretty sick fucking joke."

"He was right there!" James pointed at the wall. "And in my bedroom." 

Lars dropped his sneer, instead giving James the eye. "You did that peyote last night, didn't you?" James tried to remember, but most of the night was a blank. "I don't know where you stole all the beer from, but I'll help you get rid of it." He pulled out a case at chest height, letting James catch the higher cases and slowly let them sink, filling the missing spot. "Burger King on the table if you want breakfast." Lars walked off with the case towards the kitchen to put one case away.

James watched Lars walk away, for the first time noticing how well the tight jeans clung to his backside.

"Cliff, I'm gonna fucking kill you, brother."


End file.
